his audacity, he remained beside Gavrilo on the lonely shore.

"You have made me happy!" cried Gavrilo, seizing Tchelkache's hand and
laying it against his cheek.

Tchelkache was silent and showed his teeth like a wolf. Gavrilo
continued to pour out his heart.

"What an idea that was of mine! We were rowing here . . . I saw the
money . . . I said to myself:

"Suppose I were to give him . . . give you . . . a blow with the oar
. . . just one! The money would be mine; as for him, I'd throw him in
the sea . . . you, you understand? Who would ever notice his
disappearance? And if you were found, no inquest would be made: who,
how, why had you been killed? You're not the kind of man for whom any
stir would be made! You're of no use on the earth! Who would take
your part? That's the way it would be! Eh?"

"Give back that money!" roared Tchelkache, seizing Gavrilo by the
throat.

Gavrilo struggled, once, twice . . . but Tchelkache's other arm
entwined itself like a serpent around him . . . a noise of tearing
linen,--and Gavrilo slipped to the ground with bulging eyes, catching
at the air with his hands and waving his legs. Tchelkache, erect,
spare, like a wild beast, showed his teeth wickedly and laughed
harshly, while his moustache worked nervously on his sharp, angular
face. Never, in his whole life, had he been so deeply wounded, and
never had his anger been so great.